Colours
by Tahllydarling
Summary: Blue was one of her favourite colours, a colour of calm, a colour of reflection but not any more - not since New York... Green is the colour that haunts him, two pairs of green eyes owned by very different people ...
1. Blue

Blue was one of her favourite colours, a colour of calm, a colour of reflection. Blue used to remind Natasha of summer skies and the waters of the Barents sea but not any more. Once it was a colour that made her happy, a colour that she somehow associated with freedom and with new beginnings. She's wary of it now, always looking out for it and slightly uneasy when she sees pale blue eyes looking her way. It never used to be this way but a lot has changed since New York and this is just one thing that might never be the same.

Every time Clint wakes in the night, body jack-knifing from the mattress and breath loud and ragged in the dark, she feels the cold grip of fear take hold in her chest. As he fights for control, she reaches out to him with one hand while she curls the fingers of the other around the knife beneath her pillow. Her trust in him is implicit but still she doesn't take chances. She sleeps beside him so that in those moments he doesn't feel alone but she never forgets the way that he looked at her when the madman was in control of his mind and body, the emptiness that she saw in his eyes. It isn't until she sees grey eyes looking back at her that she can take a proper breath.

She isn't the only one who sees frozen oceans instead of storm clouds. Just days ago, when the demons were screaming particularly loudly, Clint looked into the bathroom mirror and saw blue eyes looking back at him. His fist was through the glass before she knew what was happening, shards littering the sink and the floor like diamonds as he struggled, caught between what was real and what was not. She found him on the floor, head in his hands and blood running from his knuckles. It took her a while to calm him down enough to look at her, even longer for him to let her bind his wounds. Neither of them slept well that night - just like they haven't on many other nights since New York.

She trains with him, walks with him, encourages him to keep his head up and keep moving. The distrust of their colleagues weighs heavily on him, just as his own broken memories do. She gives him an outlet for the impotent rage, pushes him to exhaustion in the gym so that he can sleep at night. She challenges everyone who thinks badly of him with her eyes, silently guarding him from further pain that will come in the form of angry looks and harsh words. Sometimes he's hanging by a thread and the only thing that seems to hold him together is her reassurance that he's not the monster that Loki made him. She stays close and she shows him in word and in action that she trusts him and that she knows him, because Clint no longer trusts himself.

She sees the damage and the scars, the scratches on his soul, and she wishes that one of them had known the satisfaction of killing Loki once and for all. At least if he was dead Clint would sleep better knowing that there was no way he could come back and take control of him again, and Natasha, well, Natasha would be able to stop sleeping with a knife within immediate reach. She misses their sparring sessions, the unrelenting manner in which he would pound her into the mats and the force of punches thrown. They are different now, he is different now, and throwing a punch at her brings back the image of his knife at her throat.

Natasha thinks of blue now and she sees soulless eyes in place of sunny skies, feels nothing but cold that seeps into her veins and freezes solid. Yes blue used to be one of her favourite colours but not any more. Loki ruined blue for them both.


	2. Green

Green is the colour of his nightmares, the colour that brings a cold sweat to his skin.

Those eyes are always there to taunt him when he closes his eyes, always mocking him when he wakes from the nightmares with the smell of blood and fear tingling in his nose. Green eyes were his favourite before Loki, something that he associated with trust and with friendship because he saw them when he looked at Natasha, but now green reminds him of the madman and nothing good comes to mind when he thinks of him. Now he can barely look his partner and best friend in the face because he doesn't trust how he will react if her eyes meet his own.

There are times when he lies awake in the dark, the presence of his partner at his side, and he is sure that he can feel Loki creeping around inside his skull. He questions himself, tries to unsee the things that are slowly but surely coming back to him, and wonders whether sometimes the Asgardian is able to see through his eyes, whether he is watching, planning his next move, popping the cork on memories that Clint does not want to carry for the rest of his life just because he enjoys seeing how it affects them all. Sometimes he wonders whether his mind will ever really be his own again. He wonders whether he will ever wake up and believe, even for a second, that Loki is gone for good.

His fears aren't just for himself. He worries about the team-mates he has found in the Avengers, knowing that each and every one of them held back on nothing more than Natasha's word that she could break a god's control over him. Not one of them have ever made him believe that he is at fault for what happened to all of them. Not one of them has reminded him in word or deed that for a short time, entirely against his will or no, he was the enemy. Nobody reminds him that he led the attack in which one of their own died. He is thankful for them, every one of them and he does what he can to show them this.

The biggest fears that he has though are about the Russian assassin who sticks by him no matter what. Natasha, he knows, is the reason that he is alive, she is the reason that he has free will and independent thought once again. Perhaps he is a fool but he doesn't fear her because she is deadly, but because rather than keeping out of his way when he was a danger to everyone he knew, she put herself squarely in his path. She doesn't flinch from him, doesn't run from him, not even when she should. The sight of her eyes as she fought with him on the carrier, as she felt the bite of his knife at her throat, wakes him as often as the echoes of Loki's laughter.

Green is the colour that haunts him, two pairs of green eyes owned by very different people, one pair his destruction and the other his salvation. One he will never forget, the other he can never make it up to. He will never look into Natasha's eyes again without remembering what passed between them on that walkway inside the SHIELD carrier, he will never forget the vile and vicious thoughts that had circled his mind when he looked at her that day. No matter how far or how fast he runs from the past, it will always be there with him, just for a second, when green eyes meet his own. She doesn't judge, doesn't blame, she's forgiven him everything and she's still at his side, but Clint knows that those days when one man turned him against her will always be between them as long as he lives.

For Natasha green is the colour of the shadows in her own eyes, the colour of envy. She's lost count of the number of men who fall under her spell, captivated by the honeyed words that fall from her lips. She was the debutante of the Red Room, the example to which all others were held. She was the prodigal daughter, always on top, always victorious and always hated. Green is the colour of her own self hatred.

Green is also the colour of the Hulk. Try as she might, she's never been able to forget that she was the one sent to drag Banner into the mess that was New York, that her words and actions ended the longest calm spell that he's had since his accident. She brought him to the carrier; she had promised him that he wouldn't have to see action with the Avengers and the words turned out to be a lie. That she believed it all at the time doesn't matter; she was wrong. The Black Widow, always so sure of herself, always weighing the odds and winning, was reckless and overconfident that day and they both paid for it. They both pay for it still.

In the darkest of her dreams she can still hear his bellows as he chases her through the carrier. She can still feel the shaking of the ground beneath her feet and the thundering of her heart as she runs for her life, glass and sparks falling around her like rain. Sometimes, just before she wakes, she can remember the way he looked at her right before he changed, oh the pain in those eyes, the knowledge that he would have little to no control over what came next but would have to live with it regardless. That was the moment she found communion with Bruce Banner, in that moment she would have done anything to spare him what would come. He expected to come back to himself and find her body broken at his feet. She had looked at him and known that whatever happened next she was no match for him, that her body was only human, her skill set reliant primarily on hand to hand combat and the ability to manipulate others. Natasha makes a living from controlling the behaviour of others with words but there is no reasoning with the Hulk, only rage and the uncontrollable urge to smash whatever stands in his path. She had feared him then, she fears him still.

Occasionally the memories twist; she dreams that Thor did not get there in time to save her and Loki won. Sometimes she dreams that by bringing Banner aboard to help find her partner, she destroyed a part of one of the finest men she knows. Even now when Bruce looks at her she can see the apology in his eyes and she wonders if he can see one in hers. It wasn't his fault, it wasn't hers. It happened, they have to move on, look to the future, see things through.

Green is not a colour that brings her peace, it is the colour of their greatest weapon and the constant danger beneath their own roof.

Green is the colour of nightmares and both she and Clint see it regularly.


	3. Red

Red is the colour of ruin. Red tastes like metal and flows like water.

Natasha sees red everywhere she looks, she sees it in her reflected image, sees it all over her skin. Her ledger drips and gushes with red, with the blood of those she has killed and those she has failed to save. When the nightmares come, and they do, she feels the old wounds bleed in the dark and she shivers with the repressed memories that course through her. The world looks at her and they see a woman who is close to indestructible but it isn't the truth, beneath the armour she wears she is brittle and damaged, worn down by the cracks and bloodstains that are part of being human. The Black Widow is a daughter of fire and flame, an assassin forged in self-hatred, not broken by her past but ruined by it.

Red is the colour of anger, blazing and writhing beneath the surface.

Anger is something that they both understand, crimson coated and sticky, it clings to them, always eating away at the shackles of their control. Two assassins paired against the odds and able to gain control of their most destructive impulses but as strong and deadly when separated as they are when they are together, they are feared and they are whispered about wherever they go. It doesn't matter how nice they are, how professional they remain, the whispers follow them both, echoing in the caverns of their minds, amplifying until they turn into screams.

Danger is always communicated in shades of scarlet, a warning, a proclamation that screams of potential calamity. Six people live in the tower full time, a seventh appearing from time to time when his presence is unneeded by his own people, and they form a group that is at best volatile, a chemical mixture for chaos. Tempers fray as they figure one another out. They burn and they blaze, colliding with one another over and over, every interaction bringing the risk of a spark that could bring the world down around them. They circle one another and they spar, always aware that when they are called into action they need to be able to trust one another without question, reminding themselves every day that the path to camaraderie was paved in the blood of someone they all respected and continue to miss.

Red is the colour of desire, at least if you believe the consumer driven society in which they live. Like most of his team mates, Clint's most fervent desire is that he will be remembered for the good he does and not the darker moments that punctuate his path. Nobody is perfect, everyone falls sometimes. Anyone can be manipulated into making the wrong choice or have their choices taken from them. It's a reality that almost anyone can wake in the night haunted by the violence of his their heartbeat only to be lulled back to sleep by the song of their blood. The beating of his blood in his veins is his most potent reminder that he is alive.

Clint walks on the ashes of his old life, setting fire to the bridges he walks across and making it harder to find his way back to what he once was. He sees the future through air that shimmers, warped by the heat that burns inside of him, always present but never clear, forever out of reach. The old dreams and wishes that sustained him for so long are blackened and charred, the embers smouldering red and waiting to leap to life and consume him. In in their place he finds new dreams, always shifting and reforming, new opportunities to be the man he has always wanted to be and not the man he was. He knows not where he is heading, only that he trusts his feet will carry him there.

Red is the colour of blood and ruin, old scars and blazing desires, in action and in thought it stains them both for all the world to see.


	4. Black

Black is the best and worst of colours, the source of whispered comfort and darkest thoughts.

They've always loved the night; they appreciate the anonymity it provides them. Beneath blackened skies they find peace, faces turned up toward the heavens so that they can count the stars, side by side, shoulder to shoulder on the rooftop of the tower. They appreciate the currents of the darkness and, when it is quiet, they hear it speaking to them, night breezes wrapping around them like gentle arms. Nobody bothers them beneath the night sky, leaving them to their strange rituals without comment.

From impossibly high perches they watch the city around them burn, absorbing the restless energy of a metropolis that shifts and changes daily, revelling in the information that the air brings them and asking questions of the stars. They train at night, allowing the dark to rob them of clear sight, trusting their instincts to keep them safe as they tumble and turn, allowing cool New York air and moonlight to paint their sessions in a soft sensuality that should not exist. The magic of dark sky and moonlight calls to them both, drawing them out in both their strongest and frailest of moments, singing to both the light and dark in their souls.

For Clint black is the colour of his powerlessness. Perfect darkness takes him back to the days when he was a prisoner within his own mind, able to see only what Loki wanted him to see and otherwise imprisoned in a cell of impenetrable blackness. He didn't realise how much he missed the light until it returned, how much the absence of it could rattle his nerves until it was taken from him by another and he was trapped in it. He doesn't convey it to Natasha, not when she is working so hard to make things okay again, but sometimes he wonders whether the black roots of Loki's control still creep through his brain like ivy streamers, popping the lids on old memories and forgotten fears. Clint sees things that he hasn't thought of in a lifetime, feels emotions that shake him with their intensity and he knows that the echoes of those darker days linger in him still. He sleeps with the curtains open, allowing the glow of the moon and the pollution of the street lights to offer him reassurance that he needs upon waking - that he is still himself and still in control.

In the darkest shadows of his bedroom, when the air is still and quiet, Clint convinces himself that his judgement awaits him. When he can't sleep, he waits for the doubts to resurface, for the memories to swoop down on him with black feathered wings and tear away further pieces of his soul. He waits for the calm to be ripped away, for his human face to be torn from his bones and the chilling emptiness of Loki's control to return. Though the man is worlds away and in a prison cell, Clint can feel the absence of something vital in his chest, something that was taken without his consent. No longer is he fully himself and this frightens him. He doesn't blame Natasha for the knife she keeps close, doesn't flinch from the feel of steel beneath the pillow that he now thinks of as hers, if anything he is reassured by it. He would rather she stab him in the heart than let him relive the days in which he was lost.

Natasha cloaks herself in black, it suits her history, her name, and above all her reputation. She is a woman known for her ability to kill, wraps herself in leather and darkness so that those who would pursue her will think twice. She walks the night without fear, following its call when she hears it, understanding instinctively that it is not she who is being offered up to the dark but the darkness offering itself to her. Black is negative energy, swirling, writhing within her, a poison that creeps a little further through her soul with every life she takes. Her light and dark are in balance now, her life all about controlling the impulses that were planted in her brain by men who could not control what they created. No matter how long she walks in the light, the darkness clings to her always.

With her porcelain skin, red hair and green eyes, she has the colouring of a woman who looks good in black. She uses it to her advantage, from suits to lounge wear, from evening gowns to bedding, she wears it like armour, plays up its classic connotations and uses it to hide the her reality. Natasha is a killer, that she has submitted to wear the collar of an agency like SHIELD does not change this fact. The past cannot be undone, the dead cannot be revived and their ghosts cannot be silenced. This is where she and Clint find one another - in their twisted paths and their shared history, they know each other down to the blood and bones.

More than anything else though in recent months, the black shadows and dark skies bring them reassurance. In whispered words and the consolation of fingers curling around their own they lend each other strength and convey the depth of their understanding. Words are overrated and the presence of the person they trust most is everything. They don't sleep well but when they do it is side by side, just to know that the other is there and safe, to be there if they are needed. The blackness cannot come between them because it is where they find one another, it is where the very roots of their connection lie.

For Clint and Natasha black is the best and worst of colours for it divides them and brings them together, comforts them and gives rise to their most primal fears. It is where they are trapped and where they find themselves, a source of strength and of fragility. Black undoes them and it rebuilds them, fractures them and gives them the chance to put one another back together. It is their blessing and their curse. Black is an absolute in a world that is painted in a thousand shades of grey and they love and hate it in equal measure.


	5. Purple

Purple is the colour of wealth and dignity, of the flowers that blossom within them throughout the year. It is the colour of old blood and bruises, of memory and of change.

For Clint, purple is the colour of his past, of the identity that he has made for himself. The old uniform still hangs in the closet, almost neglected in favour of the suit that replaced it but never too far from his thoughts. In quiet moments he fingers the fabric, reminding himself that the first steps on this journey of reinvention were far from easy that the latest bump in the road is not the end of the journey for him. He has risen from the ashes of his past mistakes and he can, he will, do it again.

The only injuries that he carries now are those from his training sessions with Natasha and he relishes them, reminding himself in the aches and the bruises that flower beneath his skin that he is alive. She doesn't like the marks that she leaves on him any more than those that he leaves on her, and that pale, pale skin of hers bruises far too easily, particularly over her hip bones and on the soft skin of her stomach, but they accept that they come with the territory. They accept the reassurance that comes from the spectrum of colours that can be painted on their bodies - browns, yellows, the reds and the mostly the purples - because of the cost of work such as theirs is often paid in heavier coin.

Clint's pain is violet tinted, his thoughts and words tinged with a guilt that Natasha cannot help him to bear. She knows his pain because it is hers, she knows his wounds because she can feel the echoes of them within herself. Their bond is too close for her to separate his torments from her own and though his pain is mostly psychological, she feels it physically in the twisting of her gut and the clenching of her heart.

She walks on eggshells, always scared that the wrong words will escape her mouth, that the touch of her hand against his skin at the wrong time will awaken memories that will damage him further. The show is very convincing, almost believable, but she knows him too well. She sees through the lies and knows the truth. Where the others accept that he is okay, Natasha sees the wounds that still bleed, the scar tissue newly formed.

Beneath the lavender skies of twilight she leans against Clint's shoulder, feet hanging into the empty space at the edge of the roof, the current of sadness that runs constantly under his skin passing from his body to hers, and she listens. She bears the weight of his confessions because she is the only one he will make them to, offering him the hand on his shoulder and silent assurances that he so badly needs. There's a power to the words, a force that resonates, giving wings to the memories and casting them into the sky where they are carried away by the breeze. They say those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. Clint, as one who survived, seems doomed to relive it, over and over, every time he closes his eyes.

She does what she can for him; where he's hurting, she soothes him. Where he's broken, she mends. The taste of his pain is constantly on her tongue, indistinguishable from her own, but her words tumble in gentle reassurances, soothing like rain, her presence providing him the anchor that he needs. Together they sit; together they wait. Bound to one another and bleeding from wounds unseen, there is only the present, no past to look back on fondly or with regret, and no future to be looked to with anticipation, there is only one moment, endless and perfect, in which they enjoy the quiet.

Purple is a colour of mystery and magic, of power and wisdom. In a world tinted amethyst, they tend their partnership, as much a mystery to them as it is to the people they surround themselves with, a thing of magic that enables them to make the other feel safe with just the smallest of gestures, and they wait for the next storm to break.


	6. Yellow

Yellow is the colour of positivity, the feeling of warmth on bare skin.

For Clint, whose mother had been a keen gardener, yellow was the colour of new beginnings. Spring has always been his favourite season and he still finds pleasure in his first sightings of the early flowers that bob and sway on the springtime breezes. In the golden-yellow blooms he finds endless positivity, belief that the cycle of life must ebb and flow, that all winters must give way to warmer and happier days.

Natasha says nothing about the bulbs that she and Pepper grow for him in pots on the roof terrace, merely accepts that they are something that make him smile and leaves the matter at that. She no longer spends every night by his side, no longer keeps her blade within easy reach. The nightmares come less often now and he finds that as the nights lighten, so does his heart. The oppressiveness of the dark is fading for both of them and in its place there is a warmth that both soothes and energises.

For Natasha yellow is the sweetest of tastes on her tongue, the knowledge that no matter how dark the night, the sun will always rise in the east and chase the lingering images away. She finds comfort in the golden glow that the sun brings to the skin of those around her and the lighthearted way in they interact during the sunny days in which they travel to the beach and enjoy much-needed downtime. Yellow is the colour that she conjures in her mind's eye to keep the darkness at bay, the comforting glow that draws her attention to those she loves and the loyalty that binds them all to one another.

In the changing of the seasons the golden memories replace those tinted blue and cold. Together the team grow older and they grow closer as they draw attention from all areas, their lives becoming increasingly public despite their efforts to keep their personal pain to themselves. They gather in the night to release lanterns into the sky, their auras glowing gold around the edges, the ghosts of all they have lost clinging to them and dancing like fireflies on the air.

After months in the dark they see the sun again, easing the aches of the longest and coldest winter they have ever known. For Clint and for Natasha, yellow becomes the colour of loyalty and sparkling possibility, the colour of the future. They say their goodbyes to what has been lost and they look ahead, knowing that the dawn will always come and the darkest hours will pass.

Yellow is the colour of fading pain, still there but reminiscent of the ripples on a pond at sunset, ever-widening but losing their intensity with the passage of time. With each new dawn, with each dying day, they find themselves and they find their equilibrium. In the energy that rises between them, in the crackle of electricity that sparks, they turn their energies outward and they respond to the call that sounds inside them, always ready to respond when needed.


	7. White

**A.N -**_ A big thank you to all who have read, followed, favourited or reviewed this story. I'll be leaving this one behind now because I think I've reached the end of this particular journey. _

* * *

White is the colour of perfection, it blankets the world and hides the imperfections from all who care to look for them.

In the moonlight Natasha finds her reflection in darkened windows, marvelling at how flawless a person with so many flaws can seem. Her colouring betrays her always, her skin and hair painting her as she really is, carving her of ice, shimmering like rubies in the snow. Hers is the face of vengeance and of justice, the last thing that wicked men ever see. She traces the ghostly lines of the scars forever etched into her flesh, the remnants of a life that she seldom talks about, reminding herself that the absence of more scars is an indication of how good she is at what she does.

White is the innocence that was stripped from Natasha the first time that the men who controlled her sent her into the world to ruin a man who had run afoul of them. It is the colour of the anger that surges within her, spiralling up from untold depths to chill her in the way no Siberian winter ever could. She can never get back what was taken from her, never again cleanse the stains from her skin and her soul. Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, she stares at her reflection in the mirror that hangs in her room and wonders how so much blood and so many flaws can be hidden beneath such porcelain perfection. She has never been one to dwell on the past, she survived it and that is all that matters.

For Clint white is the colour of medical safety, a reminder of countless treatment rooms in which he has lain, of tiled walls and flickering x-ray images that show his broken bones. There is inherent safety in it, a cleanliness that he can respect even if he prefers not to surrender his body and mind into the care of others. He fears the free fall that he experienced while under the influence of sedation or pain medication, finding it too alarming to no longer have complete control of his limbs and his thoughts. White is the colour of oblivion and oblivion is something he no longer seeks.

Clint finds himself, grounds himself, in her belief in him. Natasha is, always has been, the single bright spot in the darkness that consumed him, keeping him afloat, guiding him to where he needs to be. She is the star that guides him, her smile given with graceful benediction in the hardest of moments, always patient, always there. He sees the goodness in her that she does not always see herself and he adores her for the purity of the feelings she shows him, dropping the walls that she uses to protect herself and placing her small white hand in his when she knows that he needs it.

Seasons have passed since the events that damaged them both so irrevocably and the scars are almost healed. Their loyalty to one another is absolute, not even the slightest of doubts can come between them. Natasha knows him down the marrow of his bones and he knows her down to hers, every strength and every flaw painted in starlight and shimmering with glitter. They burn brighter than they ever have, flaring bright as magnesium, blinding those who would stand against them with their belief in what they do.

In the first snowfall of winter they stand side by side, neither of them bothering to wrap up against the chill. Alone, they survey the terrace, marvelling at the silent stillness that envelops them. The hush that settles over the city as the sky lightens is breathtaking, like the deep breath before the storm. The snow falls where it will and there is nothing that they can do to change that, this is a lesson that they have learned the hard way - all they can do is be there to keep each other warm when it does.

White is the colour of their future, laid out before them, glittering with possibilities in the winter sunlight and they can see it. Neither Clint nor Natasha look back, each carrying the steps that have led them to this moment in their minds. The future is white, crisp, untouched by the events of the past. They stare at it for a long moment, absorbing the cold and letting their breath fog in front of their faces with every exhale. His fingers find hers and she turns just enough to look at him, waiting until he is ready to take the first step.

White is the colour of arctic lands and untouched purity, the bright future that they both crave as much as they crave their next breath. Side by side, hand in hand, they face it, knowing that in the untouched beauty, glinting and beckoning them, that every step they take from this point on will show. Without words, without doubt, they step out into the snow and leave the past where it belongs.


End file.
